Target
by magikash
Summary: AU. She has a new target, a better target. A more important target. And everything will change.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This story is AU (alternate universe), and has almost nothing to do with the plot lines of the show. This idea just came out of nowhere, and I'm actually kind of liking it myself._

_Here's a brief character analysis/summary of sorts to help those that might be confused: Nikita is a solo assassin who takes out particular people for a personal reason (revealed in later chapters). Michael is a freelance investigator, chasing down Nikita to put her killing to a stop. Nikita plans on assassinating Alex because of said personal reasons (again, revealed later), but Michael gets in the way of her plans, butting in and stopping her. _

_-Mikita will come a few chapters later. Sorry. :D_

_That's all I'm gonna tell for now, because I don't want to give away too much, do I? c: Hope you enjoy, drop a review._

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Nikita, what wonders would happen? Amazing wonders. (aka more Mikita scenes, tyvm.)

* * *

New York tends to be rather chilly in the winter.

She looks up at the sky, breathing deeply. The sun is just rising, and the traffic has already started hours before, shiny cars honking and angry drivers shouting. Citizens and tourists already crowd the sidewalks, weaving between businessmen yelling into their phones to get to their desired destinations.

She takes slow steps, taking her time to wander and get a good look of the bumbling city. Everything seems normal, nothing seems out of place.

Good.

Stopping for a moment, she turns her head to the stores on her left side. A book store, a small Chinese restaurant and a coffee shop. Hm. She thinks it's rather cozy for the sharpness of Manhattan. She begins to walk slowly again when a man wearing a large leather jacket bumps into her shoulder, _move it, lady,_ casting an angry look to her face. Seems to be fairly normal for the city.

Suddenly, her cell phone rings. Digging into her pocket, she steps into the tiny coffee shop to take the call, requiring something quieter than the noisy streets. She takes a seat at a small table in the corner of the café, answering the still chiming mobile. "Hello?"

"Miss Udinov?" comes a deep, smooth voice, one that she familiarly knows (but doesn't like very much).

"Yes, that's me."

"Have you arrived safely?"

"Yes. No troubles and no one recognized me."

"Good."

A short silence occurs, and she waits patiently for her caller to continue.

"And, you have the apartment and job details, correct?" he asks, voice flat as if he isn't really paying attention to the conversation.

"Of course."

"Then you're good to go. Good luck. Be careful. Make sure you stay below the radar of notice, Alexandra. And also make sure your name doesn't slip."

"I know, I know. You've already briefed me about this like a hundred times."

"Because I was told to remind you more than necessary. Good bye."

Her caller hangs up, and she pockets her phone. She stands up and heads to the counter, ordering a coffee to accommodate her in the freezing weather. The young man behind the cash register takes the money and returns the appropriate change, asking for her name.

"Alexan – just – Alex."

* * *

He's sitting in his office, in his large loft, staring out of the wall-length window that looks over the city. He thinks it's great, thus the reason he chose this home. The Empire State Building is smack dab in the middle of his view, offering a nice sight of the tall buildings surrounding it.

Sighing, he returns to the laptop screen in front of him. The computer must have logged out on its own, as he sees the login screen flashing a blank space for him to enter his name and password. He obliges, typing in _Michael West _and a password at a reasonable speed to give him access to his laptop.

The articles he had been reading and the word document he had been writing reopens for him, to his relief. He's researching something. Something important.

His document reads _Nikita Mears, Who is She?_ at the top, with several pages of written information about her. He couldn't do much, because all he found was purely from the Internet, of what was released to the public.

He's determined to find more.

* * *

Michael steps into the large building, wearing a crisp suit, taking in a breath of the familiar scent. His flight from New York to Virginia had been quick and easy, since he had traveled between the two states more times than he could count. And now, being in the CIA headquarters in Langley, he had a job to do.

He walks briskly to the front desk to the young woman typing out some things on a keyboard. He hasn't seen her before, so he thinks she's new. "Who must you be, sir?" she clips, seemingly impatient already. She has an English accent.

"Michael West. Freelance investigator. I know someone here," he replies, flashing his ID.

"And who is that? What is your reason for being here?"

"Seymour Birkhoff. He's a tech. I need to talk to him."

"If you want to do so, you must sign – "

Right on cue, the telephone on the desk rings. The woman answers.

"Hey, Sonya, it's Birkhoff. If a somebody named Michael West comes in – tall, a little intimidating looking with a scruff, although not better than mine, of course – send him up." He hangs up after a little tongue click. She can just picture him with the hand gestures and wink, leering at her.

"Go on up," she says on an irritated sigh, ending the call.

"Thanks," Michael grunts, hastily walking to the elevators.

When the lift arrives at Birkhoff's floor, he steps out and strides over to his friend's desk, receiving a few waves from other workers along the way.

"Hey, Mikey. I see you're getting a bit famous in here," Seymour greets, pulling a chair next to him so Michael can sit. "Probably because you visit me so much. You have anything you wanna tell me?

"Shut up. Speaking of, do _you_ have anything you wanna tell me?"

Birkhoff shows innocent eyes. "What do you mean?"

"That new girl at the counter – what was her name – _Sonya?"_

"She's hot, right?" the tech smirks, then gasps in horror. "Wait. How do you know her name? Did she put me on speaker?"

"Hm, yeah."

Sighing, Birkhoff gently face palms. "We've told her not to answer the phone on speaker. I don't know why, but she always does. I guess it's like a habit or something."

"Yeah, well, anyway, let's get to business. Do you have the info?" Michael asks, rubbing his hands together.

"Mikey, always the man of business. I've got 'em here."

Birkhoff turns to the computer screen on his table, typing impossibly fast to pull up some windows. "Here – Nikita Mears. Solo assassin, always uses a sniper rifle with custom-made bullets to take out her targets. We don't know why she kills who she kills, but she's always successful. There aren't a lot of connections between her victims, so we ruled off most of her kills as random. Sport."

"Don't say it like that. That's gross. You're making it sound like humans are whales or something."

"It's illegal to kill whales," the tech informs.

"Exactly."

Birkhoff furrows his eyebrows, not understanding the simple joke. "…Anyway, we have no idea where she got her gun or training, because there's no record of her in the military database, et cetera. No record in anything, really. No family, no associates, no nothing before her first accounted kill back in '08. We've been trying to record all her kills since then."

Michael rubs at his chin with his right hand, his left holding the elbow as he leans onto the desk to get a better look at the screen. "And – how many kills total?"

His friend sighs. "A lot within the past four years. Seventeen of the ones that we've counted. There's possibly more kills that we could have missed. She can't have _that_ many enemies, and counting. That's why we put that it was random people she killed. We know it's not random, though, but we can't prove it."

"Seventeen professional kills in four years. That's… a lot. Considering it's certain people that she surely had to kill," Michael comments, squinting his eyes in thought.

"Yeah."

After a moment of silence of both the men deep in thought about the wrongs of Nikita, Michael abruptly stands up, grabbing the copies of the files from Seymour's desk.

"Thanks for the stuff. I owe you one."

"You owe me lots."

With a swift head nod, Michael turns, walking to the elevator. "My scruff is better," he calls with a smirk as the doors close.

* * *

The wind blows.

She sits on the roof of an abandoned building, sniper rifle ready to aim in front of her. Taking a look through the scope, she searches around her target area to find her victim.

There he is. He's standing still on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change so he can cross the street.

Nikita half smiles, amused at her luck in finding her target so fast, and unmoving as well. She flexes her fingers and is ready to pull the trigger, when – someone intercepts her shot. A woman. A young woman. Brunette, blueish-gray eyes.

She looks – familiar.

Nikita cocks her head, staring intently at the girl. Looks some type of European in descent – maybe Russian – and about twenty years old. The assassin narrows her eyes, trying to get a better look.

Oh – her target. She needs to focus on her target, or she'll have some trouble finding him again. But the woman is standing right in front of him, so if she shoots, she'll shoot the woman. She doesn't kill people she doesn't have to kill. She's not _that_ much of a psychopath.

And then it hits her.

Udinov. She's an Udinov. Nikita's seen her before, long ago, when the girl was still a child. Before she turned into a killer, before she knew the truth.

She puts the rifle away, back into the case. Nikita has to do some research first; see what the girl – what was her name, Alexandra? – has been up to these days. She has a new target, a better target. A more important target. She smiles smugly.

Good.

That's good.

* * *

_Thoughts?_

_If you are liking this story so far – I'd appreciate it you'd leave a review or follow it so I know you'd want more chapters. I'm not really planning on continuing it if not many people are interested, because I have a whole plot planned out for this – how it's going to go and how it's going to end. I think. c:_

_Reviews are good. Very good. (Especially those correcting my mistakes.)_

_~magikash_


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you serious?"

Michael groans, repeating the same words for about the hundredth time. "Yes, I'm serious."

"Oh, come on. Why? Do you know how much trouble I will get into if someone finds out that I took the files?"

"I don't want the files – I want copies. _Copies._"

The man on the other end of the call sighs. "Same difference. But anyway, it's gonna take some time. There's a lot of files. Plus, I'll have to go down to the records room when no one is watching it. And that's not often," he says, finally giving into the investigator's request.

"Thanks, Sean."

"That's _Detective _Pierce to you."

"Shut it," Michael growls, clearly annoyed at the man's antics.

"Uh – yeah. Bye."

Setting his cellphone down onto his desk in the apartment, he exhales, feeling relieved that his friend had decided to help him with his quest in searching for Nikita by providing him with the case files of her victims. He wasn't sure if it would help much, but every clue he got was pertinent. He taps his fingers on the wooden table, contemplating his next moves.

* * *

Nikita had found out some basic information about the girl – she recently came to New York from Russia, she's come alone, and her American accent is surprisingly well that the rogue thinks the girl has lived in the States before. She had bought one of the more luxurious apartments in Upper East Side, suggesting that she had money. The girl lives on the fourth floor in room 407, under the name of Alex Winslow.

Even Nikita herself is surprised at how much she had discovered despite Alex's attempts to stay hidden.

The assassin stacks her information and leaves it in the corner of her desk in her loft, and stands up to stride to her most prized possession – the rifle. It has done her good many times. No mistake, no trouble, just the way she wants it. Ever since _that night_, Nikita has always been alone. Never with a friend, never with a partner, never with a lover. Just her. She doesn't mind, her solitary lifestyle doesn't bother her. She likes it being just her, only her. It definitely helps with her missions, being independent. She has never failed, and doesn't plan to fail at this next objective.

"Here we go, Alex," the rogue says.

* * *

"Alright," announces Detective Pierce, wiggling the files that Michael had requested.

"Thanks, Sean."

"Yeah. You're lucky today was a slow day, otherwise you would've gotten those papers in the next hundred years. New guy was on duty today; he kept on going to the bathroom. Ea-sy."

"No need for the details," Michael grumbles, flipping open the folder to skim through the reports, making sure everything is there.

"Hey, come on. Can't run the world on Michael's terms. We gotta have some fun now and then," the cop explains, largely gesturing with his hands.

"Details of your 'super cop adventures' are _not_ fun. Trust me," Michael throws back, looking into Sean's eyes. "If you were someone else and had to listen to your stories – you would rather jump off a cliff."

"Oh – hey. That's mean. That was totally uncalled for."

"Yes, well, I like to keep myself mean. Easier to threaten people that way," the investigator says, eyes back in the files.

"You know what – I don't have to deal with this. I'm leaving," the detective declares with a mock face of hurt feelings.

"Better that way."

"Oh, _come on._ Stop with the insults."

"You totally gave that one to me."

"I take it back."

"Can't."

Sighing, Sean raises an eyebrow. "Fine. I'm going – shut up. You're welcome. How about for a return favor, you introduce me to one of those hot FBI agents you know, eh?"

"No."

"Killjoy."

* * *

The detective steps off the elevator, shuffling to his apartment with a few take-out boxes in hand. Taking his keys out of his coat, he unlocks the door as he hears the elevator dinging again. Pierce turns around, seeing a girl walk out and strolling his way. "Hey. Who're you?" he asks, surprised at this new face. Maybe she's a friend of one of his neighbors.

"Uh – who are _you?_"

He raises an eyebrow. "I'm Sean. Sean Pierce. You?"

"Oh, I'm Alex. Winslow. Just moved in here."

"Right! Someone told me there would be a new person moving across from me," Sean says. He didn't think it would a girl. Much less a girl like _her._ Pretty eyes. Gorgeous overall, if he can say. Maybe he won't be needing one of those FBI agents.

"Um, yeah. I guess we're neighbors then?" she hesitantly says, the end sort of coming up like a question.

"Yeah. Hey – how about you come in? I bought some dinner, I'm sure there's enough for two. Have a little – what do you call it – celebratory new-neighbor dinner?" the detective requests, smiling cheekily. Even he knows it was the worst attempt at flirting, and cringes slightly at himself. He's a bit rusty.

"Uh – "

"It's okay. I'm not some creepy perv or anything. I'm a cop, see," Sean says, holding up his badge. "I assure you my intentions are no more than dinner for a neighbor."

Alex ponders for a moment, thinking whether or not she should accept. Her neighbor – Sean – looks like a nice guy, not bad in the looks department either, but she was told to stay low, don't make too many friends, and not to get too close to anyone. But – a dinner (for neighbors only, nothing more, of course) wouldn't hurt, right?

"Actually, yeah. I'd like that," she tells him, smiling softly.

Sean grins in return.

* * *

"This one is very nice," Michael murmurs, running his fingers along the sleek metal of the barrel.

"Yes – that one is new. Was delivered to me just about – ah – last week."

"Huh. I might have to think about this one. Seems a little pricey. Isn't it?"

"Well, I suppose so, considering it's a newer model. I might be able give you a discount, though, since you are a frequent customer."

"I'll think. Check out some others."

"Yes, of course, go ahead, Mr. West."

Michael walks to the back of the small room, glancing at shiny pistols sitting on a polished wooden table. He picks up a black one resting on the farthest left. It's not too heavy, and it feels good in his grip. Small enough to be concealed in his jacket, too.

The little bell hanging over the door chimes behind him, signaling the entrance of another person. Michael didn't really think this store had many buyers because of the over-the-top prices, but he has to admit that the guns here are the best of the best.

"Trevor – you have the bullets, right?"

Michael jerks his head up at the woman's voice. Not many women would buy bullets. He slowly turns his head to the counter in the side of the room and sees the back of a woman; tall, thin, and long, dark hair.

It fits the description of Nikita Mears. Perfectly.

Suddenly, the woman spins around, seeing Michael staring at her with squinted eyes and a gun in his hands.

She runs.

* * *

_Thank you all for your kind reviews, and dropping another comment of what you think about this second chapter would make my day._

_Sorry for the cliffhanger, by the way. Couldn't help it. c:_

_~magikash_


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: The third installment of Target is finally here! I just want to point out that updates will be a bit slow, maybe once a week at the fastest. Sorry 'bout that._

_Otherwise, feel free to drop a review pointing out what you liked/didn't like and any mistakes you may find. Enjoy!_

* * *

He chases her.

She bolts out the front door, Michael hot on her heels just behind, knocking over a few shelves causing several intricate vases to shatter, bumping into a corner of a table in his haste, grunting, his coat flapping dangerously and pushing some small weapons off their stands, gun still in hand – whoops, forgot to pay for it, oh well – turning a sharp left just as he jumps over the threshold. He stops for a moment to catch his breath.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't _so_ hot on her heels. He likes to think otherwise. (It makes him feel a little better.)

Nikita begins to sprint faster, going down the dark alley they've exited into, and she turns her head to see her chaser starting to follow her again after his brief pause. She needs to run faster, faster, because this man (who she knew had been looking into her) _cannot_ under any circumstances catch her. If he does – well – bad things are sure to happen.

The assassin spots a door on the wall of her right side, so she runs straight to it, slipping inside before slamming it shut.

She's in some kind of a hallway and she's blinded for a split second because bright fluorescent lights are beaming into her eyes. When they adjust, she starts to jog down the corridor, eyes roaming this way and that to take in her strange surroundings. There's a few doors to her left and to her right, small windows showing blurred outlines of crates and boxes.

Huh, maybe it's some kind of a fancy storage building.

Nikita continues forward and sees a stainless steel rack holding some coats and jackets. Yanking one off its hangers, she pulls on the long black trench coat to at least somehow hide her in the night.

The rogue hears the door she has entered from crashing open, the noise of it shutting to a close reverberating through the aisle, a stark contrast to the regularly silent hall. She jogs at a quicker pace, knowing her pursuer is now in the same building as she is, and not very far either.

The hallway abruptly comes to a stop, another metal door similar to the first one signaling the other edge. Nikita opens it slowly and quietly, hoping the sound doesn't echo too loudly to encourage her follower to speed up. She stumbles out into another alley almost identical to the previous one, freezing air biting at her skin. She turns her head both ways and sees that her right side is the exit to the street, albeit farther than expected. The woman sprints towards the road lights.

* * *

Alex sighs as she steps off the elevator on her floor, panting lightly after the long run she had gone on. Her stomach growls, and she realizes it's dinnertime. She's hungry.

The young woman pads to her apartment door, taking out her keys to unlock it. She shoves the key into the lock and turns it, pushing down the door handle.

She blinks. Furrows her eyebrows.

Something's strange. Alex lets go of the handle, pushes down again. It's silly, really, what makes her think is suspicious. It's just that the doorknob is easier to twist, much easier than it was yesterday. She frowns, puzzled at the odd change. Shrugging, the girl dismisses it – probably just her imagination.

She enters her home, drops the keys onto the counter of her kitchen and makes her way into the bedroom, scrubbing a hand through her hair, deciding she needs a shower.

That's when she notices it.

It's definitely not her imagination this time. Her coat – which she unmistakably remembers had been draped messily on top of her pillow after she shucked it off after her trip to the mall – is not there anymore. It is haphazardly crumpled underneath the pillow, and there would be no reason for her jacket to slide down on its own accord onto the blankets.

Someone has undoubtedly been in here.

Alex slowly sits on the edge of her bed, sighs. She rubs a hand down her face in frustration.

This is not good.

* * *

"Nikita!"

Michael sees the assassin heading for the street, so he draws his gun. She slows down, raising her hands up in the air.

"Gun. Toss it to the side."

She does as asked, throwing her weapon to her right side into a pile of garbage bags. It lands with a soft thump. Pivoting on her heels, Nikita faces the investigator. "That took a while," she teases, lips quirking up.

He cocks his head, squinting. That was not the reaction he'd been expecting from her. "What do you mean?" he growls.

"I know you've been investigating me," the woman says coolly, as if not affected by his actions in looking for her.

Michael is clearly confused now. How did she know? He hadn't done anything that would make his investigation public; just some favors from close friends, maybe some Internet searches. It's not like he had been posting hourly updates of his progress on a blog or something.

"Doesn't matter. I'll be gone, anyway. You won't find me again."

"Nikita," the man warns, clicking off his safety. "What's your motive? Why are you killing innocent men?"

"They are _not_ innocent," Nikita snarls, eyes narrowing in anger.

The investigator is confused again at her reaction, because the men she had assassinated had no criminal records whatsoever. ". . .Who's your next target?" he questions.

"Like I would tell you," she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

The rogue takes a step forward, causing Michael to focus his weapon on her again. He shifts on his feet, hands clutched on the pistol (that he hasn't paid for). "Don't."

She takes another step towards him. "Let me go," she says, breath barely above a whisper, "or stop me now."

Michael hesitates.

Nikita whips out her back-up gun, shooting the investigator in the shoulder all in one swift move. He stumbles back, then landing on his knees, surprised at the sudden attack, grunting in pain as he tries to stop the flow of blood with his hand. The assassin jogs to him, squatting to eye-level.

"It's a good wound. It'll give you a manly battle scar."

She runs.

(Again.)


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: So so very sorry about the looooong wait. Guess I've been getting lazy, haha. But don't worry, I have not abandoned this story. Like I said, updates will be slow (possibly extremely slow, my apologies), but this story will have an end._

_This chapter is a bit short, but hope you like it anyway._

_Reviews are nice, hint hint. Helps to remind me that I have to take some time off my tumblring to write._

* * *

_She sprints towards the street, trench coat fluttering behind her like a cape. Is she a hero or a villain? Nikita thinks about it for a moment._

_When she reaches the edge of the alley, bright street lights and vehicle headlights flashing in her eyes, she spins around, looking back at the man she'd left behind with a gaping bullet hole in his shoulder. Michael is still squatted, grunting, trying to stop the flow of unwanted blood with his hand, now stained a deep red. He manages to stand up, though, and he gingerly removes his jacket to use it as a tourniquet on the wound, which slows the dark liquid. The investigator's gaze is still set on his hurt shoulder._

_A cold wind rushes through all of a sudden, and the man lifts his head to look at her. Nikita smirks, waves a hand in farewell. "You'll live, Michael," she comments, raising her voice so it carries through the alley to him. "You're lucky I didn't just kill you here and now."_

_He squints, flicks his eyes to the wounded shoulder for a second. "Thanks, I appreciate it. You're too kind," he drawls, sarcasm dripping heavily from his voice. "Hurts like hell, though," he adds._

_The rogue smirks again and feels a burst of mirth bubbling in her chest. "Man up," she advises before she can get the smiles get to her. She turns to the left with a twirl of her long coat, leaving Michael in a deserted alley wondering how she'd known his name._

* * *

Nikita opens her eyes, laughter suddenly escaping her lips from the memory of the night before as the morning sunlight pours in through the wall-length windows of her spacious yet empty loft. She smiles to herself, feeling somewhat confused about her surprisingly good mood today. The woman swings her legs over the side of the small bed to sit up, her long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, glinting in the light.

They – meaning her and Michael – had had some sort of chemistry from the beginning. She could feel it, the spark between them. He's an interesting guy.

Whoa.

Hold up. Erase that last thought, what is she thinking?

She shakes her head, stands and reaches her arms straight up to stretch. After a moment of letting her muscles relax, the rogue snatches her cell phone from the nightstand on the left of the bed and turns it on. No missed calls or messages.

Good. Everything should be quiet.

Nikita smiles, amused at how well her silent hunt for Alexandra is going. The assassin had been thinking that the girl would have caught her by now, considering her efforts to stay invisible and always looking over her shoulder.

Ah, well, she's not complaining. All is going better than expected.

She slowly pads to her kitchen, ridding her mind of her current thoughts. She's hungry.

She opens her small refridgerator, peruses her options as she taps a rhythm with her fingers wrapped around the handle. Finally making her decision after a minute, the woman grabs the necessary ingredients and drops them on a large glass plate. She moves to her sink and carefully washes them.

The rogue sets the plate down on the counter and goes to a cupboard to take out a blender, settling it beside her plate, and plugs in the cable. She turns around to open a drawer from her other side to remove a medium-sized cooking knife, then proceeds to cut and slice various types of vegetables ranging from carrots, lettuce, and more. Nikita slides the veggies off the plate and into the blender, puts the cap on, and presses a button that causes the machine to whir and blend her ingredients.

What better than a fresh veggie shake to start her day?

* * *

"Alex!"

She turns and sees her neighbor walking hastily towards her, bundle of papers in hand. He seems anxious and has sort of a wild look in his eyes, which makes her curious about his current situation. "Hey," she answers, shooting him half a smile.

"Hi, I need to tell you something. It's really important. I mean really, really important," Sean blurts, looking even more troubled. He's sweating a little; he probably ran up the stairs to catch up with her (or maybe it's just from how nervous he is). The hand holding the documents are clenched and the paper is crumpling a little. His other hand is fisted so tightly that she thinks his nails are digging painfully into his palm.

"Hey, Sean, slow down, okay? How about you come inside?" Alex says soothingly as she moves back, taking out her keys and unlocking her front door. She turns to look at him again and furrows her eyebrows slightly, tilting her head to the side, becoming concerned about her friend's distressed behavior.

"Yeah, okay, I guess this is better done in private. Like I said, extremely important," he replies with a hysterical smile, waving his papers in the air.

She walks in ahead of him and he closes the door; locks it. Alex stops, watches the way his wide eyes stare back at her, nervousness seeping from his expression. He turns away, as if to hide that he's so worked up.

He doesn't even give the apartment a second look before he sits down on a chair at the counter, setting down the papers and motioning to her to come closer. She grabs two glasses and pours each of them some cold water before sitting next to him as he gulps down his drink.

"Woah, Sean, what is it? Why are you so. . .disturbed?" she asks, placing her hand on his forearm to somehow calm him down.

"This might be – uh – kind of. . .surprising, but you have to promise not to freak out."

"Is this about my coat that you wanted from me?"

"Yes. I took it in to the precinct for fingerprinting, you know, just to kind of figure out who might have broke in – "

Alex gasps. "You didn't have to do that. I told you, nothing was stolen, everything is fine," she informs slowly. There was really no point of all the trouble he went through for some mysterious guy that gave a quick but meaningless visit to her home, since, as she had said, nothing was stolen.

"I just had to make sure, you know. I was thinking to go find the person, maybe arrest them for breaking and entering, but – something happened. When the fingerprint results came back."

There's an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

"Alex. This person who broke into your apartment – she's dangerous. She's an assassin."


End file.
